


Nascitur

by rubyboys



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Porn, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Dark, Dirty Talk, Drinking, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Heavy Angst, Hogsmeade, M/M, Malfoy Manor, Mention of Eating Disorders, Mirror Sex, POC Harry Potter, Porn, Possibly Unrequited Love, Sad Ending, Sadomasochism, Self-Hatred, Some Descriptions of Violence, Top Harry Potter, Unhappy Ending, Violence, dub-con if you squint, impulsive behaviour, lmao sorry this seems so dark it's not actually this morbid, not happy sex, very porny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-19 20:55:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14881046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubyboys/pseuds/rubyboys
Summary: It is May. Buds bloom into life, richly pink and near-shimmering with vibrancy. The world is pooled in sunshine, shoots unfurling into glittering greenness, and the sky has never been bluer. Indoors, an angry Harry and an ashamed Draco make love against the dingy, cold backdrop of their traumas.





	Nascitur

****It is May.

Buds bloom into life, richly pink and near-shimmering with vibrancy. The whole world, for the first time in over a year, seems pooled in sunshine, shoots unfurling into glittering greenness. The sky has never been bluer.

Two weeks ago, Harry murdered Voldemort.

And everyone’s so bloody happy.

It’s as though Harry’s world has been pressed on pause, but everyone else is sidling on through quite easily. Static crackles in his periphery, renders him still, stagnant and alone in Hogsmeade. He wakes up every morning to stare at the partial-ruins of Hogwarts, dead and quiet in the sunlight. Every morning, he shifts a few paces to the left, so that the view from his inn bedroom’s window obscures the wreckage of the Ravenclaw tower, and blends away the smoke marks splattered like crude fingerpainting around the windows of the west wing. It doesn’t obscure the view at all though, not really, doesn’t blend a thing away, and Harry just ends up standing in front of the wall, feeling stupid and angry.

Voldemort’s death was a white, outstretched finger jabbing at the button on one of Dudley’s old VCRs, and making everything shift sideways horribly in limbo.

Nobody told Harry what to do, when it ended. There isn’t anything to do after disaster. Not when you don’t have anywhere to go.

And yes, fine, okay, he’s had offers. Over the past two weeks, he’s had plenty of offers. Places to live, places to stay, places to hang out. The Weasleys damn-near begged that he come on holiday with them, but Harry wasn’t in the mood for all that heat and luxury, not now.

All of these offers make a weird change, an unsettling one, after spending such a long time in tents, moving from place to place. And, apparently, the students of Hogwarts and their families don’t hate him, as he could easily believe, for having brought the battle to them. That’s weird, too. People, some he knows well and others not so well, trying to open their homes to him. No—trying to split open their lives for the sake of some strange, angry kid who did one good thing once, in a terrible way, in a pointless and unspeakably cruel war. Maybe it’s a nice gesture. It doesn’t feel nice.

Rationally, really, he should be in one of those places. With the Weasleys, most probably, or Hermione’s parents—they’d surprised him with an offer, and they barely know what happened at all. It feels more genuine, in a way, than all of the other offers from strangers. And, after all, he’s still got dingy old Grimmauld Place, which could be okay, in a way, once cleared of all the curses and magical parasites and the feeling that Sirius is still there, just out of sight.

He, most certainly, should not be here.

Malfoy Manor is as grotesquely enormous as he remembers it. Narcissa looks small and awkward inside, sat at the large dining table in her long, near-glowing gowns, her eyes dreadfully wide and anxious every time she smiles at Harry. Lucius isn’t about, of course. He’s not the type to just hang about and await trial. He’s either out there somewhere, schmoozing, or just gone. Harry doubts there’s any noble reason Lucius could have for being totally AWOL.

You wouldn’t know, just by being there, that this was the very house Voldemort had roamed for the past few months. That he slept in those bed chambers, ate at that table, lectured and paced in this hall. It’s not something Harry notices immediately, which must be a good thing. With Voldemort dead, he can’t sense even the places he used to be. What he does notice, obviously, are Narcissa’s hunched shoulders and darting eyes, Malfoy’s quiet footsteps (taught himself to walk quietly here, probably—he never used to be one to not make himself known) and the way his lips draw in and go white whenever they move into wide open spaces. No, Harry can’t tell that Voldemort used to be here—but the stench of Voldemort lingers on in the behaviours of Narcissa, Malfoy, and in Lucius’s absence.

It’s not as though he’s staying here, though. Just a few visits. He’s been holed up in one of the grim and shabby Hogsmeade inns over the past twelve days or so, owling Ron assurances over and over that yes, he’s on his way, he just has to pack. Still. And then Malfoy made him a strange offer at the side of the bar of the inn, letting Harry know that Narcissa said he was welcome anytime. Malfoy looked at him weirdly as he said it, as though Harry was so unpredictable he had to watch carefully for any signs of volatility. Which is hilarious, coming from Malfoy, who presents as a nervous, jumpy, hollowed-out husk of a person, standing close to the walls and keeping his head down, as though that’ll keep any pair of eyes in a half-mile radius from honing in on him.

It was yet another offer that Harry was going to reject. And then Malfoy called Harry a, “jumped-up, brainless hero,” and Harry called Malfoy something along the lines of, “a cowardly little Daddy’s boy,” and added that he needed to be, “taken down a peg or twenty.”

And that was about a week ago.

Because Malfoy gets it.

They’ve been hurling insults at each other for a good few days now, in and out of pubs, and on the floor of Malfoy Manor’s Great Hall, between beer-logged punches and the ever-increasing number of bloodied kisses. So many kisses, in fact, that Malfoy stopped making snide, mocking jokes about it, and Harry stopped laughing.

It’s been a daily cascade of uncomfortable small talk turned vicious, which turns into punching and throwing each other against the wall of whatever establishment they’ve ended up in, which turns into a firewhiskey binge back in one of the main rooms of the manor—which turns into hard, toothy kissing up against the wall or the back of a dining room chair or the kitchen door. That turns into more drinking, most hissed insults, Malfoy awkwardly trying to drop into conversation the fact that he has, in fact, dated girls, and Harry eventually leaving, bored with Malfoy’s anxious charade. They’re past that, now.

So this, ending up in Draco bloody Malfoy’s bedroom—he’s known it was coming for a while.

The grand tour doesn’t last long. Malfoy doesn’t make any pretenses, and Narcissa doesn’t seem to notice how antsy they are to escape her absent-minded small talk. They have to be normal around her, obviously, but it feels uneasy, having to be civil in each other’s presence; this is not a relationship that sits down and has a cuppa and chats.

It’s more fun than that, Harry thinks. It’s brazenly, brilliantly, thoughtlessly destructive.

It’s exactly what he needs. 

As they head up the stairs (stupid, massive, marble staircase), Harry sees Narcissa twirl in her gown, lost in thought, cupping her cold mug of tea close to her chin without drinking it. She’s by the huge, wall-length windows, a colourless pale thing in the sun. It’s a sad sight. Everything in Malfoy Manor is sad. It’s been emptied of most its furniture, seized by the ministry, so everything is just dust and too much space and cups of tea to fill the time. Sunshine doesn’t look right here.

Malfoy doesn’t look right here. Poor little rich boy—he seems to cringe constantly when he’s downstairs, or out in Hogsmeade, or sober in any shape or form. A far cry from the arrogant wanker sprawled over the sofas of the Slytherin common room, back when Harry and Ron snuck in, in second year.

And, again, there’s no real reason for Harry to be here. No reason good enough that he could cut it up neatly into a sentence and owl it off to Hermione. _This is why I’m spending all this time with someone totally unbearable instead of with my friends after one of the most traumatic incidences of my life. It’s because…_ Nope. Nothing. No reason good enough that he could escape without one of her hesitant, concerned questions in response, at the very least. Or, even worse, an outright “what on earth are you doing, Harry,” as though they’re eleven again.

They’re not, though. Everything’s ruined, now.

Well, anyway. Maybe this is ridiculous. But he’s here now.

Malfoy’s room is large and luxurious, all glossy blacks and opaque whites, like it’s been pulled directly from a magazine. It’s so not the right room for an eighteen-year-old boy; there’s too much space, too few things, and a bed so big and gorgeous that it kind of pisses Harry off. Nobody needs a bed that big. Not unless they’re half-giant. And Malfoy might be all tall and lanky now, shot up even more in the year Harry was away, but he’s no Hagrid.

It doesn’t seem to matter, though—at least, the decor doesn’t come up in conversation. There is no conversation. Malfoy’s on him before the door even closes properly.

That’s just what Malfoy’s like now, been like, for the past week. Reckless. Not caring who sees, or what happens, or if it’ll hurt him in the long run. Which is fine, because Harry’s been feeling pretty reckless too.

Ergo, Malfoy Manor.

Harry doesn’t want to muck about with awkward pleasantries, even if Malfoy is, already, looking a little spooked. He doesn’t want to fake passion either, act as though all he wants to do is rip their clothes off and get at it. He just wants to do it, and piss Malfoy off as he does, and get pissed off by Malfoy as he does. Fun.  

He settles up against Malfoy’s front, his palms cupping Malfoy’s hipbones. Malfoy’s taller than Harry, now, but he’s not stronger, especially not now that he’s rocking that tired, emaciated look.

They’re both bruised and cut up from the past week; Harry’s bottom lip is split and aching, and Malfoy’s right cheekbone is coloured purple. Harry likes to let Malfoy get a couple punches in, so that he can hit him back as hard as he likes. He likes hitting Malfoy. He likes doing lots of things to Malfoy.

Harry smoothes up Malfoy’s belly with his thumbs, and wonders how long Malfoy will let him get away with just touching him, stroking him. He looks up at Malfoy, challenging him, and sees that Malfoy is definitely not having it.

“Are you here to pet me, then, Potter? Maybe you should go find a Hippogriff or something. Any one of your giant mate’s dumb animals.”

Harry fights a laugh at Malfoy’s sheer audacity, and feels an equal push of anger roil in his belly, and settles finally on talking. “If you want me leave, I’ll leave,” he says, making no move away whatsoever.

Malfoy exhales heavily, just looking at him.

Fine, Harry thinks.

He swings Malfoy round by his hips, and shoves him onto the big, stupid bed. He lands sprawled on his arse, looking up at Harry: a little surprised, a little breathless, a little thrilled. Harry shifts up the bed on his knees, kneels over Malfoy’s hips, and slides his fingers into Malfoy’s hair. He doesn’t pull, but he closes his hand around a bunch of it, consideringly.

“Is this a power trip, then?” Malfoy asks beneath him. “Shall we stare at each other until our clothes come off all by themselves?”

Merlin, he’s annoying.

“Take your clothes off,” Harry says brusquely, and shifts back to undress.

“How seductive.”

“Off,” he says, pulling off his own top over his head, and getting to unzipping his jeans. He glances down at Malfoy, lying there with his eyes glittering, and says, “Off,” again, emphatically.

Malfoy reaches into his back pocket for his wand, and murmurs something unintelligible, a spell Harry doesn’t know.

“Are you seriously—” Harry begins, and stops, as the spell starts to get going. Malfoy’s robes steal off of his body in a matter of seconds, rolling off of his skin in an impossibly smooth, quick movement. They fold up mid-air and land somewhere across the room, leaving Malfoy nude right there, in front of Harry.

Harry shivers, looking down at Malfoy’s soft, white chest, the pink pricks of his nipples, and the light ramble of dusky hair between his spread legs, which are splayed lazily over the sheets. Supine on the bed, the beam of springtime daylight from the window misses Malfoy entirely, and sits instead in a slanting shape on the floor, barely a meter away. In the diluted grey light, just sat there, just naked, not even doing anything... he looks absolutely sinful.

And he used a bloody spell, instead of undressing himself.

Poncy Pureblood git.

Harry lets out a low, shaky sigh as he finishes undressing, and finally rubs his hand down Malfoy’s chest and belly. He lets his nails drag, just slightly, over his skin, and Malfoy sucks in a harsh inhale, wetting his lips.

“Am I seriously what?” Malfoy asks darkly.

Harry moves his hand to Malfoy’s nipple and takes it, hard, between his thumb and forefinger, rolling it roughly between his fingers. Malfoy visibly gulps, hips jerking up involuntarily, and Harry lets go with a slow pull.

“Seriously such an arse.”

He’s brutal with Malfoy, he knows he is. But, it’s okay, because Malfoy returns it in equal measure. It’s all okay, the whole thing, because Malfoy gets it.

How _angry_ he is. How _shit_ everything is. Everything.

How they spent years trying to get rid of Voldemort, and then they did, and then everything was bleak and pointless and everyone was dead, and what even is the point of winning a war if everything that happened in the war doesn’t get bloody undone?

There’s not exactly any point in anything. Most definitely not in continuing on, finding a house, getting a life, studying for his OWLs or getting a job, getting up every single bloody morning to pour cereal and brush his teeth and get dressed and go out and work and come back and eat some pasta and brush his teeth and get undressed, and what’s the point, what’s the bloody point.

Because it’s not better. It doesn’t get better, and it hasn’t gotten better, and it won’t get better.

Everyone’s dead. And everyone else is just living their lives, standing in the sun, as though life can possibly continue onwards. Teddy doesn’t have any parents anymore, for Merlin’s sake.

But Malfoy gets it.

Harry knew he got it the first time Harry threw a punch. Malfoy had stood there in front of him, touching the blood on his lip thoughtfully, and as voices behind them rose and they got kicked out, all he did was look at Harry. Quietly. Thinking.

And then they ended up outside, and Malfoy punched Harry’s jaw so hard Harry thought he might’ve lost a tooth.

He called Harry an, “arrogant, no-good, miserable piece of nothing,” and Harry told him, “that’s funny, that’s exactly what I was going to say to you,” and the night ended fuzzy, with blood in the back of his throat, and his heart high in his chest.

So, with Malfoy, they don’t have to waste time with disingenuous comfort. They just do exactly what makes them feel better. Or what makes them feel nothing. Whatever, whichever. It doesn’t matter. And, you know, whatever, maybe it’s not healthy. But it’s fine. It works.

So. This is that.

Tension now high in Harry’s chest and shoulders, he moves his focus to Malfoy’s arse. “I’m gonna,” he begins, awkwardly, stroking up and down the warm cleft of Malfoy’s arse with his thumb. “Okay?”

He’s brought lube in a little vial, and a single condom; they’re a bit old: the lube in particular is courtesy of Ron in fourth year, courtesy of Fred and George in third year, but it should be fine. He’s never used it at all, and never really thought he’d ever use it. The only reason he has it is because of Ron awkwardly fumbling it off to Harry in an embarrassed show of support when Harry mentioned how good-looking Cedric was. He definitely didn’t think he’d be using it on Malfoy. Fourteen-year-old Harry probably would’ve been disgusted at the idea. Eighteen-year-old Harry is pretty pleased with it, though.

He empties a puddle of the lube over his fingers, and draws his lips into his mouth nervously. He can get Malfoy ready; he just hasn’t done it to a guy before and he doesn’t it to be stupid. As he goes to open him up, Malfoy says lightly, “There’s a charm for it, you know.”

And Harry says, “I know,” and keeps going.

Malfoy shivers; Harry knows he does, because Malfoy stops himself with an obvious jolt, and takes a deep breath. Smug, Harry continues.

“You can skip this bit,” Malfoy says then, in a rush of breath. Harry glances up at him, and Malfoy’s staring down at him, expression unfathomable, lips parted as he breathes a little harder.

“How would that work, then?” Harry says tiredly. 

Immediately, Malfoy says, deeply irate, “Just be fast. Merlin, Potter.”

And that’s what’s so infuriating about Malfoy. Unreadable, pissy, and endlessly demanding. It’s also what makes him so incredibly fuckable.

Harry plunges an oiled-up finger as far into Malfoy’s arse as he can, which turns out to be not very far at all. Harry thinks for a second that there’s no way this is going to work, but then Malfoy exhales pointedly, lets his legs fall apart further, and starts to relax his inner walls, until suddenly Harry’s able to push his finger in all the way down to the knuckle. It’s disgustingly hot, watching Malfoy’s arse swallow his finger completely; it makes his cock jerk of its own accord, and his brain go a bit fuzzy.

After a moment of riding Malfoy’s hole with his finger, he can finally manage two fingers, and then three. He spears Malfoy open with his fingers until Malfoy’s inner walls manage to relax completely around him, and he feels pretty coated in lube—his pink wrinkled hole is practically shining with the stuff—so it should be fine, now. Harry sits back and eases the condom on around his dick, and tries not to acknowledge the blatant way Malfoy is just staring at him.

When the condom is all the way at the base, and he’s sat back on his haunches, Harry sighs, and says, “What?”

Malfoy raises an eyebrow. “Nothing,” he says. But that’s a lie, because he’s openly appraising Harry’s body.

Harry feels hot under Malfoy’s gaze, but not because of the staring. He doesn’t really care what Malfoy thinks of his body, or anyone, for that matter. What he doesn’t want to submit to is Malfoy’s stare, the way Malfoy seems to be claiming Harry with a look, staring and staring and taking in as much as he can, as though he can own it.

“Are you gonna keep doing that?” Harry asks coolly.

“Doing what?”

“Staring.” He feels like a twelve-year-old all over again, indignant and obsessing over every single annoying thing Malfoy does.

“I’m not staring.”

“Just—shut up. Fucking hell.”

Malfoy tilts his head, wetting his lips thoughtfully. “Why?” he says, after a pause. He sits up as he talks, ends up kneeling back on his haunches just as Harry is, but taller, grander, infuriatingly gorgeous.

Harry lets out a loud sigh, and wills himself to make eye contact, not to be cowed away by Malfoy’s dumb challenge. “You wanna know?”

“Oh yes,” Malfoy says, his voice now positively frosty, focusing on Harry with narrowed eyes, his lips curled in the furthest thing from a smile, “manhandle me. Take me like the big, strong man you are, why don’t you?”

Of course—even here, even now, everything Malfoy says is absolutely marinated in sardonicism.

The thing is, Harry has grown up in a lot of ways over the past few years. He certainly hasn’t, however, outgrown the compelling desire to throw Malfoy around a room hard enough to wipe the look right off of his face.

Manhandling Draco Malfoy? It comes naturally.

With an unforgiving push, Malfoy collapses back onto the pillows with a breathy grunt, looking up at Harry hotly. Harry grips Malfoy’s ankles and drags him closer; he slides down the bed and lands right up against Harry’s thighs, where Harry’s kneeling on the mattress.

“Rough,” Malfoy insists, because of course he’s such a brat he has to dictate exactly how this plays out. Luckily, Harry’s not in any mood to challenge that. Rough is good. Rough is right. Rough is exactly what he intends. He doesn’t think he can do anything but rough.

Harry considers then, for a second, and pushes Malfoy onto his belly. Quick as a flash, Malfoy finds his way onto all fours, unquestioning and eager and so bloody demanding, as he always is.

Harry holds his breath at the sight of it. He’s been over Malfoy all week—shoving him against the walls of pubs and inn bedrooms, punching him and getting punched back, splitting lips and bruising cheekbones, and, every day, pinning him down against something and straddling him until the kiss runs dry and things get too quiet in his head. So they know how to touch each other by this point.

But Malfoy’s hole looks too small, now, even all wet and opened up. Then again, the ache of _want_ twists doggedly in his gut, and Merlin, yeah, Malfoy wants it, and he wants it. He wants it, for a whole plentitude of confusing, weird reasons.

He kicks himself into action, and sinks into Malfoy with some force. Slow, obviously, because he’s not a total wanker when it comes to Malfoy. It takes him a moment, once he’s eased in, to catch his breath, and let the full tide of the sensation wash over him. It’s too much to bear, at first—Malfoy is too tight, stupidly tight, too tensed up for the lube to matter, too silky-smooth around him, too much—and Harry sucks in an urgent breath, not sure how this is gonna work, or how he can last at all if Malfoy feels like _this_.

Doubt pulls at his attention, but Malfoy says, “Hey,” blunt and loud, and Harry finds his gaze in the full-length mirror standing before the bed. “Do it, then,” he says. So bloody rude.

Harry stiffens his jaw, pissed off at Malfoy’s wild lack of sensitivity, and starts to fuck into him. The lube has gone further than he thought, easing the way, and the resistance of Malfoy’s inner muscles breaks down in just a couple of thrusts. Harry’s not as careful as he should be, starting with choppy, urgent strokes until he settles into a sensical rhythm, but god. _God_. Malfoy’s hole hugs his cock with such mad, ridiculous tightness that it’s damn-near immoral. Yet, it still opens around Harry’s cock, accommodates the slick push and pull of each thrust perfectly.

Malfoy’s positioned perfectly: on his hands and knees in front of him, facing the mirror, so Harry can see everything. Harry feels drunk with it, breathless, his thoughts slurring together. He could really get carried away here, lose control and end up coming in seconds. It’s an unmuted, outrageous assault of sensation over every inch of his cock, and every single bit of that sensation seems to thread up into his body: spreading warmth into his belly, his chest, his fingers, his toes, his head, making everything flush with heat.

This was a bloody great idea.

He groans, rolling his head deliriously, and takes hold of Malfoy’s hips, starting to fuck him in earnest.

“Talk to me,” Draco says.

For half a second, Harry’s stomach twists in uncertainty; he hasn’t done that before, and Malfoy hasn’t asked that of him before. He thinks that if that’s what Malfoy expects of him, then maybe this isn’t right for them right now. He opens his mouth without much idea of what he’ll say, whether he’ll just ignore him or tell him to shut up or just go for it—but then he looks at Malfoy’s dumb, vicious gaze in the mirror, his pinched face all flushed, and he just looks at him for a moment. Because Malfoy has no business looking that fucking pretty.

His hair is too long, a sheet of pale blonde, as though he’s a bloody Veela, and it drapes itself over his ears and sticks to his sweat-slick cheeks and forehead, and curls over his parted lips, as fat as rosebuds and expelling hard breaths. He’s newly skinny, too skinny for his frame, so bony that his arse, where it nestles against Harry’s thighs and belly, prods him a little with every thrust. Harry can see the little bumps of his spine over his back, but Malfoy is so pale that his blush really does reach over the whole of his body, making his back all pink and nice and touchable.

Harry reaches up and smoothes out a snarl in Malfoy’s hair, before knuckling down into it and yanking Malfoy’s head back, so that he can see his Adam’s apple bob in his throat, and maybe hurt him too. Yes, he thinks, as Malfoy exhales sharply. Definitely hurt him.

Malfoy seems to grin for a second, but it’s lost in a sweet, long noise that seems to burn its way out of his mouth.

And in that grin, Harry sees the Malfoy that joyfully bit hurtful insults at Harry’s friends, and the Malfoy that always flew just as well as him at Quidditch, the only thing Harry was any good at. He even sees the Malfoy that stood awkwardly in Lucius’s arms at the Battle of Hogwarts, newly-shamed and grinning no longer. That Malfoy was never this pretty, never this scrawny and blush-pink and _tight_ , never making all the right noises to make Harry’s cock twitch and jerk of its own accord in sudden flashes of heat.

He feels the words lurch rapidly into place like there’s a backlog of dirty, hateful litany that’s welled up in his mind, and suddenly, he doesn’t just want to say it, he _has_ to say it. With his wide, brown palms spread over Malfoy’s bony white hips, taking him over and over and over in sharp, hard snaps of his hips, so hard and so rushed that it threatens to overtake Harry entirely, he just lets the words fall out.

It’s an endless barrage of filthy, furious language, dirty talk at its absolute basest, cruelest level. He shouldn’t be saying this, because no one should ever say this to a person. No one should be crashing into another person as wholly and immeasurably as he is, in body and mind, in hate and lust and whatever fucked up solidarity this is, and also be saying these kinds of things.

These are the kinds of things you regret saying to someone. Even someone like Malfoy.

But he keeps going.

In the mirror, Malfoy stares at him with his head bent back, blown pupils half-hooded by heavy eyelids, his mouth slack and panting. Barb-edged and vitriolic, Harry says something about Malfoy being a, “no-good Pureblood brat,” or maybe it’s that he’s, “just a coward, just a punching bag, good for nothing, good for no-one.” But there’s so many words and so much of it is so contemptible that it all seems to melt into itself, into one big indiscernible wall of lust-hazy malice.

Somewhere in there, though, he definitely says something like, “Ruin you, gonna ruin you,” and that’s when Malfoy’s eyes go glassy and finally close. He looks as though he’s been caught in total bliss; it makes him choke out a moan, and reach below to jerk at his cock fast and hard.

“Yes,” Malfoy grunts, and the word breaks into a long, whining breath, and, Merlin, he even _sounds_ fuckable, and continues, “yeah, yes, Potter. Ruin me.”

Wait.

And it strikes Harry all of a sudden that this isn’t what he thinks it is. Or maybe it’s exactly what he thinks it is, it’s just that Malfoy’s also getting out of it exactly what Harry’s getting out of it, and Harry just didn’t see that earlier.

This is Malfoy, getting Harry to punish him. Really punish him.

Alongside Harry, using Malfoy as a punching bag.

Maybe it’s not that bad an arrangement.

“You just want me to hurt you,” he says.

Malfoy glances back at him, behind his shoulder this time, eyebrows knitted. His hips still where Harry stops thrusting, and the cold air over their bodies feels more present, all of a sudden. “Uh. Yes,” Malfoy says emphatically. “Clever, aren’t you,” he adds, for no good reason other than to agitate Harry. To get Harry to hurt him.

Harry obliges.

He slams into Malfoy with uneven, untempered thrusts, tries to throw him off so that he can take him even deeper, and offset each one with something too shallow, too barely-there. It works. It makes Harry’s thighs shake with the effort of not just taking him, easy as that, and his cock aches a little bit, frustrated, but it works. Malfoy sinks onto his forearms beneath him, exhaling hard breaths capped in noise, as though each breath was meant to be a word before Harry fucked it out of him.

Maybe it shouldn’t be this violent. It’s not Harry’s first time, but he’s not exactly experienced, and he knows sex with guys like this isn’t necessarily a comfortable experience even when it’s all slowed down and gentle.

But, Merlin’s beard, it’s so easy to do this to Malfoy. Like a guilty pleasure, like it doesn’t really count, because Malfoy’s up for it, getting off on it, and doesn’t that feel good? Being able to crush him, with no real consequence, being able to bruise him and insult him and let all of it out, and all it does it egg Malfoy on. He pulls Malfoy’s hair, and Malfoy moans. He grips his hips too hard, and Malfoy leans into it. He fucks into Malfoy endlessly, mercilessly, like it’s all he’s capable of doing, and Malfoy just begs him not to stop.

He whispers things to Malfoy—leans in with sweet nothings, but instead he bites out dirty things, bad things, cruel things—and Malfoy just closes his eyes and takes it.

There’s freedom, Harry’s realised, over the past week, in being able to hurt something. Someone. And, anyway, Malfoy’s offering himself up. So why not?

He falls quiet, looking down and watching the slick, pink blur of his cock moving over and over into Malfoy’s sun-starved, pretty arse. He’s not terribly close at all—he doesn’t really find fucking a great way to get off, but, when it feels this good, that’s not a problem whatsoever. It just feels good to keep going, to feel driven perpetually to the brink, hover there, fade out, and drive back there all over again. It’s intoxicating.

Malfoy’s arse opens around him so nicely, takes it so well that it’s kind of impressive. Harry hums a little in satisfaction, rubs his hand over Malfoy’s lovely arse cheeks, impressed with how well Malfoy’s taking it. He’s just letting Harry fuck him as sharply as he likes, even though every thrust seems to jolt Malfoy all the way down to his bones, judging by how much he shakes and trembles and gasps, head lowered and mouth letting out a long, low, stuttering groan. God, he does take it so well. Harry’s not sure, actually, if this is Malfoy’s first time or not.

He didn’t really ask.

He probably would’ve asked someone else though; Harry’s not… He’s not the kind of person who doesn’t check. Right? If it hurts. But then again, that’s not what this is, so, no, yes, it’s fine, it doesn’t count. It’s not really sex if all you want to do is let off some steam with each other. If pain is the whole point.

And then he hears Malfoy say, “Hurt me, Potter,” the words caught up in a low, grateful groan into the mattress.

So Harry opens his mouth and talks.

“In sixth year,” he says, shifting his grip on Malfoy’s hips and leaving behind whitish imprints of his fingers that don’t immediately fade like they’re meant to, mottled slightly green as they bruise, “I was so fucking sure that you were up to something. So I followed you round. All the time. Every day. More and more. And I was right. And I never got to feel good about being right because you were doing such a terrible thing.”

“You cut me,” Malfoy says. There’s no anger there: it’s a statement without judgment, just an observation.

“Yeah, I did,” Harry says, equally neutral.

With a sweet, hitched grunt, Malfoy sinks further onto his chest, which has the blissful side effect of opening up his arse even more for Harry. Harry keeps going, and Malfoy groans a little longer.

“And now,” Harry pants, “I’m at your massive house. Your awful house. In your bedroom. Taking you like the absolute, fucking…” He falters for a split second, and continues, “absolute slut you are.”

He doesn’t use words like that. No one he knows, or looks up to, or anyone like Sirius or Dumbledore used words like that.

He uses those words on Malfoy though. Because Malfoy lets him. Because Malfoy wants him to. Because it’s okay to talk to someone like Malfoy like that. It must be.

“You feel good now,” Malfoy says, or asks, or something, but his voice is caught halfway between a dry observation and an earnest whine, and he just sounds so _right_.

“Yeah,” Harry breathes, and adjusts his grip on Malfoy—slides his hands down onto Malfoy’s thighs, and pulls them in, closer to Harry’s thighs, so Malfoy’s whole frame is lowered further against the mattress, and trembling more and more as Harry pounds into him. “Yeah, this feels good.”

Malfoy adjusts his knees a little, head hanging low as he breathes, and pushes back, right up against the base of Harry’s cock, and says, “Good.”

It does feel good, crazy good, all comfortably tight and slick and hot, made better by being able to watch Malfoy in the mirror stare at himself, pink-faced and unforgiving.

Well, it’s not a good thing, in itself. Harry knows he could never tell Hermione, and, realistically, if he tried to tell Ron, Ron would never forgive him the mental imagery. Then again, doing this to Malfoy, doing this with Malfoy—this dark, and dirty, and selfish, and reckless thing—he can’t picture it ever stopping. Maybe he’ll just never go back. He doesn’t really want to. Maybe he’ll just stay here forever, flitting between Hogsmeade and Malfoy Manor, spending every day with Malfoy: getting totally absorbed in Malfoy and all of the terrible things he is.

He starts scratching Malfoy’s back hard, leaving muted red streaks over Malfoy’s skin that take a couple of seconds to fade back into his skin. Harry does it again, and again, entranced by it, entranced by how Malfoy just takes it without even saying anything. “Is that good?” Harry asks, breathless.

Malfoy starts whining longer, louder, in split, dulcet moans, and hell, isn’t that something Harry never thought he’d hear. It feels like a plea for more, but as Harry spirals closer to the edge, his head getting heavier and dizzier, he realises he can’t give anymore. He holds his breath and slows down, sighs heavily, stroking up and down Malfoy’s sides instead of scratching.

“What are you doing?” Malfoy asks in protest, staring at him in their reflection, and, Merlin, he knows Malfoy gets off on pain and all that, but it’s getting stupid at this point.

Taking hold of Malfoy’s belly, he finds enough purchase to drag Malfoy up, right off of his elbows and onto his knees, upright and back, his spine now a long divisive line running all the way down Harry’s chest. Harry feels a little thrill at being able to manhandle Malfoy so freely, and even more thrill when Malfoy bucks against him slightly, frowning.

“Just fuck me,” Malfoy says, as though Harry has completely stopped.

Harry ignores him and braces himself against him anew, until he finds enough leverage to fuck Malfoy just as hard here. In the mirror, Malfoy’s frowning slightly, probably at his newfound vulnerability—his whole front is exposed, and he’s leaning totally on Harry. His hair isn’t in his face anymore, but swung back over his ears, showing his blood-rich cheeks, the sweat on his forehead and chin and neck, and his grey, serious eyes. His chest is as flushed pink as his back, his nipples hard little pricks in his soft, wide areolas. His belly is flat, pencil-thin, making way for the sad bulge of his ribs and his gunlike hipbones. A little trail of soft, light hair runs down below his belly-button all the way to his cock, heavy and bobbing between his legs. It’s so vividly pink it looks ridiculous against the backdrop of his pale body, and the brown spread of Harry’s hands over his thighs.

“Just do it, Potter,” Malfoy repeats, sounding a little irate this time.

Harry looks at him in the mirror, and says, “I am.”

Malfoy glares at him, looking the perfect brat, and says, dripping with scorn, “I don’t need a _cuddle_.”

And that’s stupid, because this isn’t a cuddle, and Harry can prove it. He settles his mouth against Malfoy’s jaw, his glasses nudging against Malfoy’s head. He lets his voice go low and gravelly as he asks, “Do you want me to hurt you, Draco?” So there’s a good chance that he gets off on degrading Malfoy. But calling Malfoy by his first name, which is something they just don’t do—that’s for the sole purpose of riling him up even more.

In the mirror, Malfoy’s face softens in surprise, or arousal, or relief. Harry can’t tell, but, with his eyes a little wider, mouth open, Malfoy looks so good.

Finally, he manages to say, “Then bloody do it.”

Harry moves a hand up to Malfoy’s chest, marvelling at the way they look in the mirror. It reminds Harry of the statuesque posing of illustrated heroes and heroines on the covers of Aunt Petunia’s books—but better, because it’s Malfoy, and Harry gets to touch him however he wants, and that’s why his hands are splayed so broad and possessive over his thighs and his chest.

He wraps his arm around Malfoy’s front, and takes a couple of fingers and runs soothing, speedy circles around Malfoy’s nipple. He then brings his other hand up so he can do two at the same time. It slows his fucking to near zero, but that’s okay. Everything has slowed down, in the right way. Pressure is building. He can feel Malfoy’s heady breath speed up where it wafts down against Harry’s hand, and the way Malfoy’s back as curved slightly where he’s started to lean back properly against him. Even Malfoy’s legs are reacting—tensing up, and then shuddering involuntarily in short, desperate spasms. “Merlin,” Malfoy whispers, and then snaps his mouth shut.

Harry ignores this, and just keeps playing with him. He decides to follow through on Malfoy’s demand, and pinches hard at one of his nipples for a section. Malfoy lets out a noise outrageously bawdy, as though he’s right out of a porno, and his stomach visibly jumps inwards as he clenches every muscle in shock.

Harry groans, and tries to make him make that sound again. Maybe he can embarrass Malfoy for the house elves. Maybe Narcissa will hear. Hell, maybe Lucius just turned up, and he’ll hear the famous Harry Potter positively ravaging his stuffy bastard of a son. Brilliant.

In the mirror, Malfoy looks the very picture of debauchery. Malfoy’s gone redder still, but his mouth is opened in anticipation of what Harry will do next, his back settled comfortably against Harry’s chest. He’s relaxed, kneeling on spread legs, because he knows he’ll take whatever Harry does to him, no matter how obscene. Merlin, that’s hot.

Harry rubs at both of his nipples then, with a rapid but light movement, barely touching them, before he squeezes both of them. _Hard._

Malfoy makes a sudden, choked-off, throaty noise that makes Harry’s cock jolt, a noise that makes Harry determine to continue to play with Malfoy like this. It’s definitely fun. Possibly, it’s more fun for Harry than it is for Malfoy, but that’s the whole point of this—getting a free card to piss each other off.

“You bastard,” Malfoy utters, between shaking breaths. As he speaks, he rolls his arse back on Harry’s cock, where it’s safely tucked away, hot and hard.

“What,” Harry laughs softly, skating his mouth over Malfoy’s neck, “afraid someone will hear?”

Malfoy glares down at the mattress with surprising obstinance, and Harry laughs, and nips at Malfoy’s earlobe. Malfoy jumps and then sighs, leaning back against Harry with his eyes closed. “No,” he says finally, breathily, “it’s just—it’s not the point. Of this.”

That sits in the air for a couple seconds before Harry knows what to do with it. He’s not entirely sure what that’s meant to mean, but it makes his stomach turn, just a bit, in doubt.

So he decides to experiment.

Harry skates his hands down Malfoy’s chest, settles on his waist, and pulls out of his arse. Malfoy makes a quiet grunt and falls forward. With a low hum, Harry shifts on his knees, and turns Malfoy onto his back. He looks pretty like that, too. The blush has settled more firmly in his cheeks, which makes him look hot and tired and antsy all at once.

Malfoy rolls where Harry pushes him, but frowns up at him, clearly dubious. His legs are spread wide, bent at the knees, and he glances up behind him at the mirror. Finally, he awkwardly settles his hands flat against Harry’s chest. As Harry moves in to kiss him, his expression shifts more definably into a scowl, eyes acerbic, and, yeah, that looks like the Malfoy Harry knows, all bratty and demanding. And Harry loves it when Malfoy looks all bratty and demanding. It makes it so much easier to do things like this.

“Ah, you utter f—” Malfoy swears, touching his freshly-bitten lip. Harry laughs dryly, and Malfoy grabs Harry’s shoulders comfortably now, with something like a smile playing at his mouth, and grinds his cock up against Harry’s stomach.

Harry squeezes a hand down between them to press Malfoy’s hips back down against the mattress. He murmurs, “No,” and Malfoy grunts in frustration, but doesn’t try again.

“Do it again,” Malfoy says instead, tilting his head to let Harry at his exposed neck.

A warm tide of feeling rushes into Harry’s chest. He’s not sure what it is, but it feels good, and he sits back on his haunches, rubbing his palms up and down Malfoy’s chest and belly, and just looks at him. And yeah, this is different than anything they’ve done, a total subversion, but it’s still essentially the same; it’s still dirty, it’s still _fun_. Harry’s not sure what ‘the point of this’ is for Malfoy, but this feels like it.

“Merlin, you really like taking your time, don’t you?” Malfoy goads.

“Yes,” Harry answers, matter-of-factly.

Malfoy’s chest rises in a sharp breath. They stay there for a second; Harry kneeling back, his hands settling in the soft inner creases of Malfoy’s spread thighs, just _looking_. There’s something wonderfully, gloriously right in having Malfoy like this, vulnerably open below him, and being able to take the time to simply look at him. It makes him feel so indomitable, and Malfoy feel so small, so conquerable. He could do anything to Malfoy right now, and Malfoy would get off on it, because Malfoy gets off on everything Harry does to him, every way Harry degrades him and hurts him. Harry’s allowed to even look at him, just like this. To claim him, with just a look.

 _This_ is the point. This feeling.

As the moment passes, Malfoy starts looking around, antsy and annoyed, before taking a hand to his own cock and starting to jerk it in a gentle, quick blur. He can’t sit still—at least, not still enough for Harry to get him to bask in this feeling the way he is.

Fine, Harry thinks. He’ll go for it, properly.

He takes his cock in his hand and guides it into Malfoy, where it slides in perfectly, snug and slick and hot, and changes position. He ends up bent over Malfoy, forearms framing his face, blocking them out close and intimate. Right up close, like this, he can watch Malfoy squirm. And he does—Malfoy looks so vulnerable, heart racing damn-near audibly, breathing fast—and is pulling at Harry restlessly, wanting something to happen.

So Harry starts fucking him gently, taking his time.

His hips rise up and down in saccharine-sweet, slow pulses, letting the pleasure strobe through him in lazy, shuddering waves. Malfoy breathes fast and open-mouthed in contrast with Harry’s low, heavy breaths. Noisy and wet, he jerks his cock fast between their stomachs, watching Harry unblinkingly. He chokes out occasional, guttural sounds with every thrust, clinging to Harry’s arm with one cinching hand, but he’s still frowning. Malfoy’s eyebrows are knitted together, lips turned downwards in a slight pout. He lets Harry go slow, though, so maybe Harry was wrong, and Malfoy does get it.

Feeling vindicated, Harry decides to kiss him. He does this differently, too.

He takes one of Malfoy’s nipples in his mouth and sucks it, lightly, letting it throb with his tongue. He moves up Malfoy’s chest with chaste, wet kisses, finds his way to Malfoy’s warm neck and lets his teeth and tongue play here, pulling at his skin in possessive but easy nips, his tongue sweeping across soothingly in regular motions. The rhythm of it is dizzying; Harry can’t figure out why he hasn’t done this before. Harry inhales sharply in heady pleasure, and moves from Malfoy’s neck, littering kisses along the underside of his defined jawline, the gaunt rise of his bruised cheekbone, and, finally, to his lips.

And Draco turns his head suddenly, and says, “Don’t be a girl, Potter, just do it.”

Right.

Of course.

Bloody hell.

Incensed, Harry pulls off him immediately, jammed up inside with disgust and annoyance. Of course this is what this is. Hermione was right, even if she didn’t actually know what was happening. Of course she was right.

Malfoy’s just using Harry to try and atone for his guilt.

This isn’t just masochism or whatever; this is Malfoy’s stupid fucking sincere attempt to get Harry to, who knows, fuck the guilt out of him probably. That’s why he’s so restless at any of Harry’s endeavours to slow things down and play. He doesn’t want to play, he wants to burn. Of course. Because Malfoy loves being the martyr, doesn’t he; he just loves to be beaten, he just loves to stew in his self-indulgent Death Eater shame. He probably doesn’t even want to be here; he probably doesn’t even like this the way Harry does. This isn’t sex: this is Malfoy assembling his own gallows. And, naturally, he nominated Harry as hangman.

“No,” Harry babbles, sitting up and bracing Malfoy’s legs against his chest with a firm grip, glaring down at him. Screw the sex. “No, no, fuck you, I’m not—you’re not gonna _atone_ this way.” It sounds so sick coming out of his mouth. As though Harry is judge, jury and executioner, and Malfoy gets to use him for punishment. When the whole point of this was just…

Well, it was, you know, reckless, stupid, fun stuff. Fighting, but better. Or something.

Definitely something more healthy than Malfoy’s thing. Probably.

Malfoy sits up on his elbows, looking up at him furiously, and says, “Just do it.”

And that’s confirmation enough.

He pulls his clothes on haphazardly in the stark silence, working through the past week with his new bitter, outraged lens. Malfoy probably didn’t even have a legitimate invitation from Narcissa; he just wanted a way to incite abuse from Harry, any kind of abuse he could take. Harry wonders how many of those invitations out there were as selfish as this one. Because it’s so disgustingly selfish. Malfoy wanted to be punished by the Chosen One himself. And maybe that was fine, for a while, because yeah, sure, Harry probably hates Malfoy as much as Malfoy hates himself, but it’s not fine anymore. It’s all gone rotten.

He pulls his hoodie the right way out, all the while saying, “Screw this. I’m not gonna fuck your guilt out of you, Malfoy. You don’t get to bed the Boy Who Lived and make that fix everything.”

Malfoy looks furious and humiliated all at once, covering himself with the sheet like that goddamned matters, and he says, “Fine, you’re an awful shag anyway.”

And it’s just to hurt Harry, and Harry doesn’t rise to it—he doesn’t need to. Malfoy is pathetic, and cold, and stupid, and he’s never going to fix what he did if he doesn’t just start thinking about it. And then he catches a glimpse of Malfoy in the mirror in front of him, white-faced and frozen on the bed where he kneels, totally sodden in his guilt, and maybe Harry isn’t as mature as he thinks. Malfoy, and all of his bloody shame, can still get a rise out of him, even now that he’s proved himself as utterly awful as Harry thought he was.

“Right, fine, I don’t care. You know what, Malfoy? You did shitty things. I know you suffered, I know Voldemort slept in your house—” Malfoy visibly flinches, and Harry continues, as he reckons with socks that won’t go on right, “and screwed up your family and ruined your lives, but you still did shitty things. And no amount of anything with me or with anyone else you deem ‘a good person’ is going to give you forgiveness. That’s something you need to do all on your own.” It’s feels so sweet saying it, because every word of it is true, and they feel so satisfying as they punch right out of him.

In a blur of tangled sheets, Malfoy lurches up and is suddenly right in front of Harry. He has one of Harry’s wrists locked in his fist, and his other hand geared back, ready to punch. Shit yes, he seriously looks like he’s going to punch Harry.

His face is twisted in a dreadful, unreadable expression, embarrassed and sad and scared, but mostly he just looks like he really wants to see Harry’s nose bleed. The sheet is pooled at their ankles.

It’s a split second choice. And Harry seriously thinks he’s going to just let Malfoy punch him, and then he could punch him back, and then this could devolve once more into what it’s been all week before Harry had this stupid idea: simple, easy, sensical fighting.

He could probably have Malfoy on the floor in a couple of seconds. Could stamp on his face, call him a Death Eater, call him a coward, call him a waste of time. He could get to his wand and use that slashing spell again, and then he could _Levicorpus_ the bastard and let him hang, humiliated, in the air. Even if Malfoy apparently gets off on it, the masochist. Then he could leave, and they would never talk again, and maybe Harry could find someone else who just wants to get lost in hurting each other and not thinking about anything. Maybe Ginny. She’s pretty angry, these days.

But, no. It’s a split second choice.

And he chooses this.

Flipping the script.

Harry hauls Malfoy in by his hips, makes Malfoy stagger and fall against him, utterly thrown.

He starts kissing him, properly this time, on the mouth. It’s wet and forceful, but not like the other times, because Harry’s not biting him, and Malfoy’s not trying to bruise him. In fact, Malfoy’s not doing much of anything—he goes tense and stands there in defiance, lips slack, his hands dead at his sides.

Harry is persistent, though, licks into Malfoy’s mouth, bruises his lips with nips and sucks, and grinds their hips together until Malfoy lets out a low, broken moan.

He reaches up and slides his hands in Harry’s hair, and then just lets them stay there, going still, shocked. “You don’t mean this,” he murmurs, awed, and Harry has no idea what that means, but yes, sure, he does mean it, if it means showing Malfoy that Harry’s not gonna be any sort of almighty saviour or punisher or whatever, not when Malfoy has to learn to forgive himself. It’s just sex. It’s just playfighting, pissing one another off, letting off some steam. That’s all it’s meant to be. So he means it that way, definitely.

And Harry presses him down onto the bed, his own jeans still unzipped, and pins Malfoy’s arms above his head to kiss him. Malfoy responds immediately, bucks his hips and makes a mewling whine against Harry’s mouth.

Harry doesn’t know what, doesn’t know why, but somehow Malfoy’s going along with it now. In all the space of a second, he’s become this needy, keening thing beneath him, all open and uninhibited, and fuck, fuck, that’s hot.

Malfoy kisses Harry back with all this desperate ferocity, lapping at Harry’s mouth, his eyes closed, and wow, Harry doesn’t think he’s been turned on in this way before, at someone wholly and unreservedly giving themselves over to him, and then trying to give even more. Huh. Maybe he is some kind of control freak. It’s not the first time he’s been accused of that. By Malfoy himself, probably.

He tries to put it out of his mind that this Malfoy, this broken, angry, fucked up young man is the same arrogant little bully he’s known for eight years—it will just rile him up. Instead, he just lets himself get lost in ravaging Malfoy’s body as it is now, Malfoy as he is now, all lanky and yearning and pretty. And Malfoy’s right there with him, underneath him, his legs locked around Harry’s shoulders, wrists pinned under Harry’s hands, looking up at Harry with unadulterated _want_ , like he’s the only thing in the world.

Like he wants to see him there.

Like Harry couldn’t be any guy, right now. Any guy, giving Malfoy the fuck of his life, distracting Malfoy from all the bullshit they’re both unable to deal with. And, okay, Malfoy seems so into it, more engrossed in it than Harry’s ever seen him, but that’s probably just because, this whole time, he’s been in need of a good fuck.

Or something. Whatever.

Ugly thoughts try at Harry’s mind, wanting to amble in and take up space, but he switches it off altogether. Underneath him, Malfoy is writhing, ardent, under Harry’s touch, completely worked up, and getting off in a way he hasn’t before with Harry. Totally and thoroughly _into it_. Hazy-eyed and red-cheeked. His mouth itself looks positively lewd: wide open in a perpetual show of pleasure, tongue wet and kissable, lips spit-slick and swollen from Harry’s bite. Oh, god, this is perfect. Harry wants to take his time here.

In the mirror, he can’t take his eyes off the sight of him on top of Malfoy, the whole thing sordid and gorgeous; he doesn’t want it to end. It’s intoxicating, the sight of Malfoy’s pale hands clinging to Harry’s dark arms, and Malfoy’s head arching back in pleasure, and Malfoy’s legs hanging ridiculously, stunningly, above them in the air, all because he’s so open for Harry, so unequivocally open.

He finds his thrusts speeding up and losing rhythm. Harry notices for the first time how much his arms are aching, killing him, how much his legs are shaking, and how totally sweaty he is. He’d find it gross, any other time, but, right now, he couldn’t care less. Strung out beneath him, Malfoy pleads for kisses wordlessly, with the arch of his neck and that dirty, urging stare. Harry indulges him, tastes the overwhelming, muggy press of Malfoy’s lips, tongue, shocked at how thoroughly Malfoy has wrapped himself around him, legs now locked around his waist, hands all over his shoulders and head, shocked at the endless stream of dirty, begging, cut-off noises falling from Malfoy’s mouth.

And finally, finally, Harry’s pushed over the edge.

The orgasm billows up inside him with all the suddenness of a Blasting Charm. It ripples in his chest and his fingertips, surges sharply in his belly, but the best part is how, as his cock practically sings inside Malfoy, Malfoy’s arse seems to pulse around him, his walls clenching and fluttering in response to every throb of come Harry splutters out. He cries out, a wordless grunt, and fucks into Malfoy as hard as he can, wanting to chase this gorgeous, aching feeling for as long as he can. He rides it out in stuttering thrusts, his thighs trembling, his hands eventually finding purchase on Malfoy’s waist.

“Merlin,” he gasps, and falls forward in exhaustion.

He falls farther than he expects, leaving them chest-to-chest, which is too hot and too sweaty, but he stays there, panting.

Malfoy can’t stop touching him, even now, stroking his chest, his arms, his face, while he jacks himself between their stomachs. Malfoy’s fingers trace endlessly from place to place, always touching. It doesn’t make sense, so Harry just kisses him, open-mouthed and languid, until he can breathe normally again.

It’s in this slow, sloppy kiss that Malfoy comes, between their bellies, in a weak twitching dribble that makes his torso flinch and fingers tremble. He pants the word, “Harry,” as if the word itself is rapture.

Harry relaxes into him, sighing in contentedness. Malfoy has gone all loose-boned and slack, spent, and, Merlin, that’s nice to feel.

He pulls out—which makes Malfoy gasp and grip Harry’s shoulders—and takes both of their cocks in one of his hands, holds them together, wet and sticky and sensitive. Playfully, he jerks them together, just a couple of times, slowly. As he does it, a bubble of pleasure rises up through his belly until it finally pops. Too sharp, too sensitive. Malfoy’s eyes are screwed shut, and he opens his mouth to pant. Okay, Harry realises, clearly too sensitive for him, and stops, and just collapses against Malfoy again.

Malfoy kisses his jaw which, okay, weird, but sweet, and Harry reciprocates, kisses his neck, and swirls his fingers in a dribble of come (one of theirs, he’s not sure who’s) that’s somehow found its way onto Malfoy’s arm.

And then Malfoy breathes, “Why’d you stop?”

And Harry thinks and says, “It was hurting you.”

And Malfoy says, without pause, without facetiousness, without any sense of play, “You should hurt me.”

Merlin. _This again?_ Harry thinks to himself.

And suddenly, inexplicably, terribly, in a rush of white noise and conflicting, confusing thoughts, each of them crashing into one another and cresting in Harry’s head—

Everything shatters.

In his head, he sees Malfoy, a week ago, interrupting Harry’s bitter tirade about life after war with a hesitant, short kiss. He sees Harry leaning back in and pushing it further, making it dirty and painful and grossly cathartic, bruising himself on Malfoy’s mouth. “I used to snog Pansy all the time. I fingered her once,” Malfoy had later said, out of nowhere, and Harry had said, “Poor Pansy,” and Malfoy had glared at him and promptly stopped talking.

He sees Malfoy, six days ago, looking up at Harry from the black marble floor of Malfoy Manor, his hand fisted in Harry’s Muggle top, lips bloodied, and his cheekbone bright pink from a fresh punch. He sees himself, bent over Malfoy, saying, “Fuck, I like hurting you,” and Malfoy saying, “Then stop talking and do it.” He sees himself happily obliging, throwing Malfoy around and letting Malfoy shove him back. He sees the way Malfoy’s eyes glitter, the way he holds his breath, just as Harry tackles him, once more, to the floor. He sees the way he goes slack and lets Harry beat him, barely even flinching.

He sees Malfoy, three days ago, walking past Narcissa as he leads Harry to the drinks cabinet, and Narcissa talking in the background, saying something Harry didn’t really parse at the time, but sounded like, “Did you eat this morning? Your dinner from last night is still in the kitchen.” He sees Malfoy take drink after drink, each day they’ve spent together, but he hasn’t seen him eat once.

And he sees Malfoy, yesterday, in Harry’s room at the inn, grinding up against Harry in his robes, gasping and grunting and clinging to Harry’s shoulders so hard his nails leave marks. And, once they’d come, and Malfoy had cast Harry off roughly and moved to the other side of the room, standing horridly still, Harry had said, “You know, you don’t have to keep pretending you don’t like guys. I literally couldn’t care less.” And Malfoy had said, caustic and quiet, “It’s very clear to me, Potter, that you couldn’t care less.”

It’s too many things, too many twisted threads, each of them stemming from all these sick, destructive places, all of them knotting together into one ugly conclusion. Harry feels as though he’s been struck in the head by his own stupidity. Bloody stupid. So bloody stupid.

He gave Malfoy his atonement. He gave Malfoy a saviour; he gave Malfoy his forgiveness. Without even realising it. Without even trying to.

And—something else.

Something more serious, and emotional, on Malfoy’s side, that Harry can’t untangle right now, because he’s not Malfoy’s saviour and he’s not exactly gonna be the love of his life, and Malfoy has no business looking at him like that, like he’s… Like he’s… Like Malfoy actually _wants_ him.

For fuck’s sake. This is not what he wanted, this is not—Harry’s not the arbiter of Malfoy’s worth, for god’s sake, he’s just a dumb kid who, who, who…

Who just made love to someone broken and self-loathing. Made love to someone who sought out Harry so that he could help him atone.

Oh god.

Harry frowns, itchy to untangle himself from Malfoy and escape the heavy weight of this situation. A wave of tiredness pulses sluggishly down his body, colliding with the icy nerves clenching in his gut. Storming out is going to look terrible, and it won’t help anything, but, but he has to leave. He just can’t be here right now.

Malfoy seems to notice that he’s gone all cold and still, and Harry doesn’t know what his own face looks like right now, but Malfoy looks at him and says, clearly, dryly, “Oh.”

And Harry just looks away and pulls out of him, moves away. He’s not ashamed. He just can’t look at Malfoy right now.

Harry’s all sticky and sweaty and horrible, but he gets dressed anyway, he can shower at home. It’s too quiet as he dresses, but he’s determined not to say anything to make this weirder. He starts looking for the pot of floo powder, and he’s still not looking at Malfoy, which feels even weirder than if he was.

And the house is so quiet. Was it this quiet the whole time? Everything feels so uncomfortable.

Finally, with his clean clothes sticking clumsily to his hot skin, his head dizzy with rampant thoughts and denial and newly-swelling anger, he finds himself in the fireplace of Malfoy’s bedroom. Because, of course, stupid rich Malfoy has a fireplace in his bedroom. He partially turns to face Malfoy, but can’t quite bring himself to look at him.

“I, uh. Home,” Harry half-explains.

“I gathered,” Malfoy says, across the room, and Harry swallows. The idyll is over.

“The Burrow,” he announces, and drops the floo powder. In a blaze of green, Malfoy’s bedroom drops out from underneath him and disappears in a tumble of glossy blacks and whites—but not before Harry catches a glimpse of Malfoy where he’s sat on the bed: jarringly composed despite his coloured cheeks, his gaze cutting and dead-on, and his fist, clenched at his neck to hold the rumpled sheet, covering his nakedness.

And then it’s all gone, and Harry steps forward into the kitchen of the Burrow.

The smells rush up to hit him all at once: old smoke from burned cooking, flowers and food and wine, the warm and oaky smells of a well lived-in home. It’s completely empty though, which makes Harry’s stomach lurch in worry for a second. No, of course, they’re not back yet from holiday; he’ll have to owl Ron to check it’s alright for him to be here. First, though, he heads for the sink, and immediately splashes cold water over his face. There’s a bottle of firewhiskey still out on the side, so, impulsively, he pours a quick glass and downs it in a hot, nasty gulp. It doesn’t help; in fact, he feels even sicker. His heart is still racing in his chest, still bent over Malfoy on that massive bed in a moment of awful realisation and guilt.

Merlin. Jesus Christ. Everything, fuck. What has he done?

He feels as though he’s finally resurfaced now that he’s here, come above the water in a spluttering frenzy, breathing real air again—but Malfoy’s back was the springboard he pushed up from.

Harry turns and leans against the counter, scrubbing his hand over his mouth, and sighs. Out the window, the Weasley’s garden is an arcadia of greens and reds and pinks, thoroughly lit up in a giddy, untidy, excitable bloom of life. It’s palpable proof that there’s life here, still happening, always going on. Living is happening.

He could do that too.

Harry rubs his eyes with his palms, focusing hard to slow his breathing. There’s too much, too much happening, a snaking eddy of thoughts twisting in his head and his chest and his belly, and it takes him a moment to recentre himself.

Scored by his deep, shuddering breaths, Harry finds his way outside, into the garden. The grass bites through his socks, and the air is much fresher and cooler than he thought it’d be.

Still, he stands there, and breathes.

It’s been two weeks since he killed Voldemort. It’s been a week since he stopped bothering to reply to his friends’ letters. It’s been barely minutes since he ruined everything with Draco.

It doesn’t feel okay, at all. None of it.

But it can be.

It's only May. 

**Author's Note:**

> hi! thank you so much for reading! i really loved writing this, and i hope you enjoyed reading it. please do leave a comment :)


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